


to prove that nothing's out to get you

by gauras



Series: if i had the chance, we'd never have to part [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Bathing/Washing, F/F, Hurt/Comfort, Mutual Pining, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Sharing a Bed, generic almost-high fantasy setting, swamp adventures (tm)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-08
Updated: 2019-04-08
Packaged: 2020-01-07 01:25:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18400298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gauras/pseuds/gauras
Summary: “Whenever you’re ready,” Adelaide’s voice is quiet and a little sloppy. Her dark eyes are focused on her own knee, where she’s rocking the bottle in a slow circle. Monroe hesitates, and Adelaide’s eyes flit up to her face. “Listen, I know that this has been… a lot, to ask for. Even from a friend. But, um… thank you. For helping. Staying.” She huffs a little laugh, just this side of desperate and helpless, like she hadn’t meant to say that last part. “I’ve either had far too much or not nearly enough.” Adelaide eyes the bottle, then takes another long swallow.or: bad luck's a bitch, but it's easier to deal with when there's someone there beside you





	to prove that nothing's out to get you

**Author's Note:**

> is this just an unholy amalgamation of tropes that i'm a sucker for? yes. do i care? absolutely not
> 
> in other words thank u for checking out my lil oneshot of my ocs being disgustingly sappy! i've spent the past 6 months working on this, and i finally finished. it's nothing special, and the plot definitely fits better for a fanfic where ur already invested in the characters, but i'm proud of it and i thought i'd share
> 
> for those wondering: monroe and adelaide r both women, although monroe's relationship w femininity and womanhood is a lot more tenuous. she still uses she/her for ease, but she's not particularly attached to those pronouns
> 
> there r some scenes of violence and the aftermath of said violence, and while i don't think any of it's particularly graphic or upsetting, i'm a firm believer in over tagging, rather than under. please tread carefully, kiddos
> 
> title is from [the bug collector](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w39qx5X_Owg) by haley henderickx
> 
> anyways! if u've gotten this far: thank u and enjoy!!!!!

_I’ve missed this_ , Monroe finds herself thinking. It’s late afternoon and she’s thigh deep in swamp sludge, the air heavy with humidity and sitting thick in her lungs. Evening light slants through spindly trees, catching on spiderwebs that glisten with dew while her breath trails behind her in crystalline clouds. Frost rimes the peat moss that falls into pools of stagnant water; tonight promises to be frigid.

It’s late afternoon and Monroe’s thigh deep in freezing swamp sludge, has been for the past three days, she’s got mud and moss in more crevices than she’d like to count, the ends of her hair have long since been stained brown. The dried fruit and nuts that she’s been living off of are starting to taste like silt, and she wouldn’t change it for the world.

At her side, thigh deep in swamp sludge too, is Adelaide, and that simple fact makes everything else worth it. Her thick hair is done up in a careful bun, but wisps of hair have sneaked loose, framing her flushed, mud streaked face with limp, lovely curls. Monroe’s missed _this_ , not the swamp. She’s missed the company, forgotten how good it feels to wander the wilds with someone she trusts. She’s missed sharing quiet meals around a dying campfire and setting up camp for two. She’s missed companionship, and couldn’t be more delighted to have convinced Adelaide to leave her lonesome mountain cabin and see the world, if only for a few months.

“Monroe?” Monroe blinks up at Adelaide, who huffs and pushes a stringy curl behind a pointed ear with a soggily gloved hand. “You still with me?”

“Yeah, sorry, sorry, just got lost in thought.” She gives Adelaide a bright smile, which is easily returned. There’s algae caught on her canines and Monroe wants to kiss her. Instead, Monroe bites her tongue and launches back into her rambling story about an especially annoying classmate from her early collegiate days. “So we’ve turned in our proposals for our half-year concoctions, right? And when Professor Eogan is passing them back, she gets to Julius, and she just, stares at him. Dead in the eye. And she says, ‘Using sodium as a primer will make the beaker explode, you absolute moron.’”

Adelaide rolls her eyes fondly and readjusts the longbow slung over her shoulders. “Now, was the ‘moron’ heavily implied, or did she actually say it?”

“Fuck if I can remember,” Monroe says, stretching her arms out with a bit of a yawn. “I may be projecting. Anyways. Julius, _the absolute moron,_ gets _that_ look on his face. You know the one, right? The one idiot men get when they’re about to explain an expert’s craft to them?” There’s a small, patient smile on Adelaide’s face, and she merely raises her eyebrows when Monroe glances over. “Hmm. Maybe you don’t know.”

“Hey!” Adelaide slaps Monroe’s shoulder and Monroe laughs, loud in the quiet of the swamp. The croaking of frogs and shrill cries of wading birds have fallen silent. “I know the idiocy of men! It’s universal!”

“Okay, okay!” Monroe holds her hands up and sidesteps another half-hearted swipe before falling back in beside Adelaide. “I get it, I’m sorry. So Julius-” Adelaide’s hand snaps out again, slapping clumsily across Monroe’s mouth. She lets out an indignant squawk, immediately prying her hand away. “What? I said I was-” Monroe cuts off her protest at the look and small shake of the head Adelaide gives her, squinting into the swiftly falling gloom.

Adelaide’s ears are pricked, twitching minutely, hand still outstretched to Monroe, momentarily forgotten. They wait five, ten, twenty seconds, then, “There’s someone out there.” Monroe’s attention immediately snaps from admiring the intensity in Adelaide’s dark brown eyes to the swamp surrounding them. She sends her magic out in a pulse, waiting for it to echo back and alert her to hostile magic on the verge of casting. It doesn’t, and Monroe relaxes the tiniest bit.

“Whatever it is, it’s not magic,” she whispers, grabbing hold of Adelaide’s hand. “We might be able to get away-” A distant snap of a twig has Adelaide’s head jerking up, and that’s all the warning they have before a shrill whistle pierces the air. Monroe barely has time to take in the widening of Adelaide’s eyes before she’s being pushed down and away. Her boots skid through the soft mud, tractionless.

There’s a sickening, wet sound and Adelaide cries out, her hand flying up to her shoulder. The shaft of an arrow protrudes from between her fingers, wood knobly and fletching ratty. A slow blossom of blood begins to bloom, marring the already stained fabric of Adelaide’s once lovely cream blouse. Another arrow screams through the air, flying just past Monroe’s ear, but she barely notices the scrape of fletching against her cheek. Instead, she has eyes only for Adelaide, who stands slightly hunched and gasping for breath, lips parted in a look of vacant shock. Her eyes are glassy as her knees begin to shake.

Monroe lunges forward to catch her before she collapses into the sludge, narrowly avoiding a third arrow aimed at her head. She hauls Adelaide’s good arm around her shoulders, pulling a pained whimper from her, and that’s all it takes to ignite the fury thrumming through Monroe’s veins.

She gathers her magic, twisting her rage and fear and compacting them until they become hard, cold, clear, and hurls them at the assailant. The water in the air solidifies, crystalizes, forms five jagged daggers of ice that sail through the air with barely a flick of her wrist. Faintly, in the distance, Monroe hears the sharp, hollow _thock-thock-thock_ of ice hitting wood and a dull sucking sound not dissimilar to that of an arrow connecting with flesh, now seared into Monroe’s mind.

With a grim smile, Monroe hikes Adelaide up a little higher, pulls her a little closer, and begins to walk.

* * *

They stumble out of the swamp and upon the clearing an hour or two past nightfall. The stars cast pale light across the clearing, barely illuminating an inn and field of withered wildflowers, their colors washed out with frost. A single lamp hangs from the inn’s covered porch, bathing its steps a watery orange. Creaking on its hinges by the door, a weather battered sign proclaims _The Weeping Witch_ in curled script.

It’s an apt name, perhaps a little too on the nose, and both Monroe and Adelaide sniffle in a way that has little to do with the chilly night air. Neither comment on it, and Monroe herds Adelaide up the steps and through the door.

The inn is warm and smells sweet, drying herbs hang over the fire crackling away behind a delicately wrought gate. A bleary looking man stands behind the bar, although he quickly snaps to attention at the gust of cold air the two let in. Monroe motions for Adelaide to stay put by the door, and Adelaide shoots her a sour look. Still, she remains, hand pressed to her wound, arrow shaft just barely poking out past her fingers.

Monroe’s glad for that irritated glance and spark of life. It’s so much better than the awful blankness Adelaide was wrapped up in as they trekked out of the swamp, catatonic and oblivious to Monroe’s stream inane commentary.

She shakes herself and approaches the innkeeper, plastering on her brightest, most charming smile as she goes. She leans her hip against the counter, flips her dirty braid over her shoulder, and vaguely hopes that she doesn’t have mud or silt in her teeth.

“Hello there,” Monroe says, bright and friendly. The man blinks at her, slow with sleep.

“Evenin’.” His voice is scratchy, rough with sleep or disuse.

“Slow night?” Monroe nods to the open doors around the main hall, advertising an empty inn.

“You could say that,” the man says. He covers a large yawn with a hand. “Look, did you need somethin’ or did you just stumble in for an evenin’ chat?”

Monroe forces a laugh. “Oh no, I’d like to rent a room. Upstairs, if you don’t mind.”

The man grumbles something under his breath and scrounges around under the bar for a few moments before he comes back up with a key. “It’s five gold a night.” He holds out a hand, key dangling from a finger on a piece of twine.

“Right, right, of course,” Monroe says agreeably and fishes out five gold pieces and drops them into the innkeeper’s waiting palm. He hands over the key, eyes sliding over Monroe’s shoulder to where Adelaide stands at the back of the room. His brows furrow. Monroe clears her throat, drawing his attention back to her. “Thanks ever so much, enjoy the rest of your evening!” She levels one last bright smile at him and whirls on her heel, stopped by one of the man’s hands snatching at her wrist. She turns back slowly, eyebrow raised.

“What’s with her?” He nods to Adelaide and Monroe can feel her heart sinking. She glances back at Adelaide, who sways slightly on her feet, face pale and eyes closed, and shrugs.

“Had a little too much ale with dinner. She’s always been a lightweight.” The man nods slowly, not looking wholly convinced. Monroe gives her arm a slight tug. “Best get her to bed, yeah? She’ll have a nasty hangover come morning.” He lets go and Monroe turns away, heaving a sigh of relief.

She makes her way back to Adelaide, who just barely starts when Monroe grabs her hand. “Come on,” Monroe says, smoothing her thumb across the back of Adelaide’s knuckles, “I got us a room.” Adelaide blinks at her once, twice, then nods and allows herself to be pulled along, head slightly bowed, hair a deliberate curtain between her and the innkeep. Monroe looks at her from the corner of her eye and runs her tongue over her teeth.

They climb the rickety stairs and find their room tucked away at the back of the hall. Seems like the innkeep wanted them as far away from the common room as possible. Monroe lets go of Adelaide’s hand to unlock the door, giving a mental shrug.

The room is small and cozy; a fireplace sits silent and cold at the foot of a bed just large enough for the two of them, heavy drapes frame the dark window, there’s a dresser and nightstands and a vase filled with slightly wilted flowers. A closed door leads to what Monroe assumes is the bathroom. She tosses hers and Adelaide’s bags down on the dresser, propping Adelaide’s bow against it, while Adelaide steps in and shuts the door with a soft click.

“I’m going to go wash up and deal with,” Adelaide gestures vaguely at her shoulder, voice a hoarse whisper, “this.” Monroe bites the inside of her lip.

“You’ll be alright?”

Adelaide smiles slightly. “You’ll know if I’m not.” Reluctant, Monroe nods.

“Well. Shout if you need anything.”

“Of course.” Adelaide gives Monroe’s shoulder what she probably thinks is a reassuring pat that is little more than a half-hearted brush of her fingertips and heads into the bathroom, shutting the door behind her. There’s the sound of rushing water and Monroe lets out a sigh, dropping the tension she’s been carrying since the attack. She rifles through her bag, searching for a suitable change of clothes. Monroe considers her reflection in the small, round mirror above the dresser, then pulls a face and turns away.

Right as Monroe goes to undress, the door to the bathroom creaks open, a slight curl of steam billowing out. Standing in the doorway, ruined blouse unbuttoned tantalizingly low, Adelaide wrings her hands.

“Um,” she says, and a blush stains her cheekbones, all the way up to the tips of her long ears, “I need some, uh, help.” She points at the broken arrow shaft protruding from her shoulder with a helpless little wave. “My range of motion’s a little restricted, at the moment.”

Fighting down her own blush, Monroe clears her throat. “Of course.” She feels a little silly for not realizing sooner, but she blames the exhaustion. “Of course.”

They stare at each other, awkward in a way they haven’t been since Monroe showed up on Adelaide’s doorstep ages ago, armed with cheap excuses and sporting a few new scars. Finally, _finally_ , Adelaide gives a short nod and ducks back into the bathroom, leaving the door ajar.

Monroe stares at the door, the steam gently wafting out, and takes a deep breath. Right. _This is fine_ , she tells herself, _you’re fine_. She gathers herself, toes off her boots and socks, and steps into the bathroom.

Most of the room is dominated by a clawfoot tub, tucked into a slight alcove, all beaten copper and scratched enamel. A small shelf with a humble collection of soaps and oils adorning it is nailed low on the wall. Adelaide’s on the edge of the tub, trailing the fingertips of her good hand in the water, testing the temperature. Monroe stands by the door, hands dangling uselessly by her sides. At her entry, Adelaide turns and stares up at her.

Her mouth is impossibly dry.

“I have no idea what to do,” she says at last, when it becomes apparent that Adelaide’s content to merely peer up at her. That seems to snap Adelaide out of her reverie because she nods and stands up, wavering ever so slightly on her feet.

“The first thing is this,” Adelaide says, pointing to the arrow, finger ghosting along the shaft, not quite touching. “I’d hoped we could save my shirt, but I think it’s ruined,” she laughs a little, plucking at the blood- and sludge stained fabric. “I’ve got a sewing kit in my pack - scissors, needle, thread - we’ll need that.” Monroe nods and ducks back out the door, fanning her red face as she makes her way back to the haphazard pile of supplies.

Trying to be as noninvasive as possible, she roots around Adelaide’s pack, shoving aside clothes and a brush and a compact mirror and a small leather-bound book, letting out a soft “ha” when she pulls up, metal sewing tin held triumphantly in hand. It rattles when she shakes it and Monroe pries the lid off, perusing its contents while she steps into the bathroom. The scissors are there - small and delicate with intricate, curling designs etched in the metal, clearly meant for snipping threads and not swathes of fabric - as well as a few straight needles of varying sizes and rough thread. Far more extensive, though, is the collection of curved needles and fine strands of undyed silk. Monroe doesn’t think that she’d call this a sewing kit.

She holds up the scissors for Adelaide to see when she re-enters the bathroom. “These the ones?” Adelaide nods. “Seem awful small to me.”

“If you’ve got something better, I’m all for it.” The next best thing Monroe has is a short knife clipped to her belt, meant for whittling and gutting fish, and she really, really doesn’t want to make this any worse. She shakes her head and steps up behind Adelaide, who’s now moved to sit on the closed toilet.

“So I’m just… cutting your shirt off, basically?” Monroe immediately freezes, blush coming back in full force, and she can see the tips of Adelaide’s ears go red.

“Basically,” Adelaide says, deliberately light. Monroe bites her lip, nods, and pinches the soft collar of Adelaide’s blouse between thumb and finger. She starts minutely at the touch of Monroe’s chilly fingers, but quickly relaxes and Monroe does her best to ignore the way goosebumps have risen along the back of Adelaide’s neck.

“Here we go,” Monroe mutters, mostly to herself, and starts to snip away at the fabric with those tiny, tiny scissors.

The going is slow. Monroe’s fingers warm up and Adelaide slowly relaxes against Monroe, the exhaustion she’s been fighting off finally catching up to her. Monroe desperately tries not to think about pulling Adelaide’s hair out of its bun and running her hands through it, or the way the soft light in the bathroom highlights the slant of Adelaide’s nose, or the fact that she’ll soon be quite decidedly topless.

With one final snip, Monroe reaches the arrow shaft and Adelaide’s blouse flops loosely open, revealing more of her dark skin.

“Done.” Monroe’s voice _definitely_ doesn’t shake. Adelaide merely hums, her hands coming up to work at the buttons of her blouse, fingers stiff and clumsy. An intense look of concentration falls across her face, brows furrowed and eyes shadowed as she squints down at her hands. Monroe watches her fumble, a slow ache forming in the center of her chest as Adelaide gets increasingly frustrated. Her hands have started to shake and she seems to be mere seconds from ripping all the buttons off. “Hey, hey, hey,” Monroe says, taking Adelaide’s trembling hands in her own, rubbing soothing circles on the backs of her knuckles with her thumbs. She slides her hands up to hold Adelaide’s wrists, can feel her thundering heartbeat in the delicate veins there. “It’s okay, I can help.” Adelaide looks down at their hands, then up to Monroe’s face, eyes flickering back and forth, searching. “Can I?” She stares at Monroe for a few more moments, then lets out a stuttering breath and nods, eyes sliding shut as her hands tighten into fists.

Monroe gives her wrists a gentle squeeze before moving to the fine buttons. Adelaide’s eyes fly open at Monroe’s touch, and she warily watches Monroe’s deft fingers.

It should be more awkward than it is, unbuttoning her friend’s shirt for her, but Monroe is too focused on the task to think very hard about the circumstances. The buttons truly are tricky, small and shaped like flowers with dainty petals that catch easily on the button holes. Still, she finishes and sits back on her heels, glancing back up at Adelaide, who is watching her with an odd look on her face, lower lip held delicately between her teeth.

Monroe clears her throat. “Now what?”

In lieu of an answer, Adelaide reaches up, stiffly, woodenly, and pushes her shirt from her shoulders. Monroe cuts her eyes away, but her gaze is inevitably drawn back to the arrow wound. The skin there is red and swollen, with dried blood caked on the shaft and flaking off of Adelaide’s skin.

“The arrow needs to come out,” Adelaide says, startling Monroe. Monroe glances at her face, but her gaze is focused on the arrow. “Give it a little wiggle?”

Monroe can feel the blood rush from her face, eyes widening in alarm. “ _Wiggle it?_ Won’t that hurt?”

“Yes, but we need to know if it’s lodged in the bone. With my luck, it probably is.” She waves Monroe closer. “Go on, give it a twist. A _gentle_ one.” Reluctantly, Monroe grabs the splintered shaft with her thumb and forefinger and rolls her fingers. The arrow gives slightly, a decidedly wet feeling that has Monroe lurching back with a shout.

“It twisted! Oh gods, I felt it _move.”_

“That’s good,” Adelaide pants, out of breath, “This’ll be a lot easier. Give me the sewing tin.” Monroe hands it over and Adelaide flips it, sliding a panel off of the bottom to reveal a small compartment that holds the pieces of two scalpels. Monroe raises her eyebrows, hoping her eyes aren’t too wild. Adelaide flushes. “I’ll explain later. Here.” With sure, precise movements, Adelaide assembles one of the scalpels, pressing it into Monroe’s hand when finished. She holds it up, the polished metal winking in the dim light of the bathroom.

“Okay, what am I doing with this?” Adelaide grimaces, and Monroe immediately knows she won’t like what’s coming next.

“Do you have any alcohol? I think we’ll both need a drink.”

Once Monroe’s returned with a bottle of dark brandy and they’ve cleaned the wound, Adelaide explains the next step, which is received with near hysteria and a great deal of screeching (“You want me to _what?”)._ Adelaide does her best to reassure her (and _oh,_ the irony isn't lost on Monroe, it couldn’t be, not when Adelaide looks pale and unsteady and so unendingly patient, warmth and understanding plain in her voice) and they eventually find themselves sitting face to face. Adelaide’s still on the closed toilet, while Monroe’s perched on the lip of the bathtub. A small globe of light bobs next to Adelaide’s shoulder, the flickering light of the bathroom’s lamps deemed insufficient. Adelaide takes a healthy swig from the bottle of brandy, then passes it off to Monroe, who douses her hands and scalpel with the alcohol.

Monroe’s hands shake when she gives the bottle back.

“Whenever you’re ready,” Adelaide’s voice is quiet and a little sloppy. Her dark eyes are focused on her own knee, where she’s rocking the bottle in a slow circle. Monroe hesitates, and Adelaide’s eyes flit up to her face. “Listen, I know that this has been… a lot, to ask for. Even from a friend. But, um… thank you. For helping. Staying.” She huffs a little laugh, just this side of desperate and helpless, like she hadn’t meant to say that last part. “I’ve either had far too much or not nearly enough.” Adelaide eyes the bottle, then takes another long swallow.

It’s when she comes up for air that Monroe takes the bottle, stealing her own sip and grimacing at the burn as the brandy slides down her throat. She sets it by the corner of the tub and Adelaide stares longingly at it.

“Ready?” Monroe asks, considering her own hands. They seem marginally steadier. Adelaide gives a one-shouldered shrug.

“I’m about as drunk as can be while still being lucid.” She scoops up a towel from the wash basin counter to twist her hands in. “Have at it.”

Monroe takes a bracing breath, then leans in, hands coming up to Adelaide’s shoulder. She brings the scalpel in, and begins.

It’s messy work. Blood wells up around the wound, coating the scalpel and Monroe’s hands, turning the meat of Adelaide’s shoulder into a slick canvas of crimson. Monroe does her best to be gentle, avoids touching the bruised skin around the shaft as much as possible. She works quickly, desperate to lessen Adelaide’s pain and discomfort. Adelaide handles it as best she can - she whimpers and gasps but doesn’t wriggle around, doesn’t dislodge the scalpel. When Monroe glances up, about halfway through widening the wound, Adelaide’s face is sweaty, with tears leaking salty paths down her cheeks. Her lips are red and bitten.

They both cringe when Monroe finally widens the wound enough and reaches in with a pair of tweezers to pull the arrowhead and remnants of the shaft out. It lands in the washbasin with a clatter, flecks of Adelaide’s blood splattering the cracked porcelain.

“Done,” Monroe proclaims, voice shaking. She slumps and looks down at her hands, stained with blood, and hastily looks back up. Adelaide is ashy, frighteningly so. “Hey, hey, what’s up? What do you need?” She takes Adelaide’s hand in her own. It’s cold and clammy.

“Dizzy,” Adelaide says faintly.

“Alright, okay. How about we find you something to eat, and then we’ll get you stitched up? How does that sound?” Adelaide nods. “Okay. Okay. I’ll go grab something from the bags.” Monroe pats her cool hand once, then pries the towel from her slack grip to press to the wound. It’s wrung nearly into a rope. “Here, put pressure on this.”

Monroe lingers for a moment, watching Adelaide mechanically press against the towel. Satisfied, Monroe gives a short nod, then dashes to their bags for what she hopes will be the last time, digging through until she comes up with her own rations of dried fruit and granola. It’ll do the job.

Adelaide takes the food with a quiet thanks, relinquishing the newly bloodied towel. The unwelcome job of applying pressure to the wound falls to Monroe as Adelaide nibbles at the fruit, picking around the dried plums and apple slices for apricots and peaches, humming a little when the sugar hits her tongue. Monroe checks the wound periodically and eventually the bleeding stops, leaving a gaping hole in the soft hollow of Adelaide’s shoulder. It looks fairly clean, despite everything.

“I think we can stitch it up, now,” Monroe says. Adelaide turns her still slightly glassy eyes on Monroe, then motions for the sewing tin. She selects a curved needle and some of that undyed silk, handing it over to Monroe.

Stitches are familiar to Monroe, at least. This she can handle. She closes the wound as quickly and neatly as she can, tying off the thread and snipping the ends with an air of finality.

“There you go. Good as new, right?” Monroe says and Adelaide quirks a smile up at her, a barely there twist of her lips that slides off her face as another wave of nausea hits. Monroe gestures uselessly to the fruit, half gone and forgotten in Adelaide’s hands.

Adelaide rolls her eyes and pops an apricot in her mouth, a bit of color slowly returning to her cheeks as she sucks on it. Monroe sits back down on the edge of the bath and tips her head back. Steam still curls from the water, and it begins to dawn on Monroe that the tub is enchanted, the flicker of old magic running beneath her hands. It’d explain the cost of the room.

Time passes. Adelaide’s blood dries on Monroe’s hands, going cool and tacky, then flaky, the color of rust. She pushes herself to her feet and to the sink, where she carefully washes the blood away with water from a pitcher, scraping under the tips and along the bed of each nail. The creases of her knuckles and palms are still rimmed with red, but her hands no longer look like the site of a mass murder. When she’s finished, Monroe leans against the sink and watches Adelaide, unsure if she should leave. Lost in her own head, Adelaide enjoys her snack, splitting a dried plum in half when all the peaches are gone. Her thumbs press into the sticky center where the pit once sat, considering, before holding half out to Monroe.

“Here. As a thank you.”

“There’s no need,” Monroe says, taking the offered half anyways. She toys with it a little, taps her finger against the same place Adelaide’s did. It’s stale and silt-flecked, surprisingly sweet. Monroe finds herself wondering if Adelaide would taste the same, earthy and fruity. She shakes herself and shoots Adelaide a wry smile. “Those were also, y’know, _my_ rations.”

Adelaide laughs, light and airy, still just a little tipsy. The corners of her eyes crinkle with it. Monroe can feel the tension in her shoulders ease. “Maybe so,” is all she says.

They lapse back into an easy silence. Monroe picks idly at the dried blood that still stains her fingers, Adelaide nibbles on an apple slice, pulling a face at its spongy texture. There’s a sharp inhalation that makes Monroe glance up, just in time to see Adelaide toss the rest of the slice in her mouth and swallow, barely pausing to chew. She slaps her good hand on her thigh decisively, gives her leg a brusque rub.

“I’m ready for that bath, now,” Adelaide declares, all painfully forced cheer.

Monroe nods, hesitates then says, “I’ll leave you to it, then,” and turns to leave.

“Wait,” Adelaide pitches forward, her bad hand latching around Monroe’s wrist, kitten-weak in the split second before she lets go with a sharp hiss of pain. “ _Wait,_ please, I.” She’s got her hand tucked up against her stomach, hunched over and she won’t meet Monroe’s eyes. “I’d like you to stay. If that’s alright with you.” She glances up then, dark eyes wide and full of… desperation, maybe, or fear. It takes Monroe a moment to shake off her surprise, and Adelaide’s ears press tight against her head when Monroe does nothing more than gape at her with all the intelligence of a fish on dry land. “Sorry, that was dumb, you don’t,” she draws in a shuddering breath, “you don’t have-”

“Of course I will.” Monroe’s voice startles both of them, hoarse and scratchy like it’s been pulled involuntarily from her chest. Adelaide exhales, collapsing further in on herself, like her strings have all been cut, limp without her own panic holding her up. Monroe fits a hand to her shoulder and she can feel the fine tremor running through her. She cups a hand to her jaw, gently tilts her head to meet her eyes. “Hey, it’s okay. You’re okay. I’m not going anywhere.” Adelaide’s eyes flit across Monroe’s face before she gives a tiny nod, a tremulous smile pulling the edges of her lips.

Monroe helps Adelaide to her feet, politely averting her eyes to the corner where wall meets ceiling as she undresses. The soft _shush_ of clothing rustling and Adelaide’s quiet grunts of exertion set Monroe’s cheeks ablaze; she angles her body away and hopes that her blush can be mistaken as heat from the steam. The subtle texture of the wall is suddenly fascinating. She barely manages to avoid jumping when Adelaide lays a still-cool hand on her shoulder, steading herself when she stumbles on her way into the tub. A curtain is tucked by the corner of the bath, a sturdy, moth eaten thing, and Monroe pulls it around the tub as Adelaide sinks into the water with a sigh, water sloshing to the floor.

Monroe steals Adelaide’s abandoned seat on the toilet lid and braces her forearms on her knees, lets her head fall forward. Dirt is ground into the space between her toes, caked under her nails. Dried sludge creeps up her ankles, the tattered hem of her leggings. It is, in all honesty, disgusting.

“I’m gonna wash up out here,” Monroe says, as much a warning as anything else. Adelaide gives a vague sound of acknowledgement, little more than a sleepy hum.

Monroe briskly shucks her own clothes. Her robes fall to a puddle on the floor, tunic and breast band alongside them. The leggings take a little more effort, stuck to her skin with mud and sweat. She drops them with her smalls, and they land with a loud _slap._ A sound of surprise comes from behind the curtain.

“Sorry,” Monroe says as she searches through the cabinet under the wash basin, pulling out a stack of towels and washcloths. She takes the top washcloth and offers it to Adelaide through the curtain, waving it about when it’s not immediately taken. “Here, use this.” A pause. “Hey, come on Adelaide, don’t fall asleep on me.”

“I’m not.” Somehow, Adelaide manages to sound defensive, even as she yawns.The rag’s taken from Monroe’s hand and she turns away.

The wash basin was once elegant, but its age is beginning to show in its cracked and yellowed porcelain. The pitcher, made of warped beaten bronze, sits on the counter. When Monroe touches it, a gentle thrum of magic runs through her fingertips, warm and comforting. It’s unsurprising she missed it the first time - the enchantment on it is practically ancient. Monroe plugs the basin and pours water from the pitcher. It gets no lighter.

The rag is rough against Monroe’s skin, but it gets the job done. She scrubs it across her arms, chest, and legs in brisk strokes, rivulets of dirtied water running across the backs of her knuckles. Her braid is difficult to undo, caked in mud as it is. Flakes of dirt fall from her hands as she combs through it, her hair a familiar dusky brown that causes a twinge to go through her gut.

The murky water swirls down the drain when Monroe pulls the plug, taking blood and swamp sludge with it. _I wonder where the water goes_. She refills the basin and scoops water to wet her hair. The grit comes out, slowly, brown giving way to flaxen white, damp and dark. There’s a well-worn bar of soap on the basin counter that Monroe uses to lather up another washcloth to drag across her hair and scalp. She rinses with the pitcher, wrings out the excess water, and rebraids her hair, tying it off with a bit of ragged, sunbleached ribbon.

The curtain is still closed when Monroe chances a glance over, and she thinks she can hear Adelaide humming to herself, oddly resonant in the quiet room as it echos off the water of the bath. Rather than continue to stand around naked, Monroe wraps a threadbare towel around herself, tucking it beneath her armpits and tying it closed.

A quiet, prolonged gurgle comes from the bath, then the sound of running water and another gusty sigh. At a loss for what to do, Monroe pulls at a loose string in the hem of her towel, over and over again. She wraps the string around her finger, tight enough to draw a band of white around her knuckle, the panic she’s been holding at bay beginning to flood over her mental walls.

It was so much easier to push away when there was something to do, something to distract her from the suddenly crushing guilt that crests over her like a wave. Between dragging Adelaide out of that damn swamp, babbling away in a vain attempt to keep her present, and fixing her up in the weirdly cozy bathroom of a little ancient inn tucked in a field of drooping wildflowers, Monroe’s mind hasn’t had time to wander to vicious, dark places. Places where people cry and whimper into rough hands that brusquely bandage without comfort. Places where pain flies from fingertips with barely a word, screams and shouts of the dying piercing the hot, heavy air. Places where cold, slithering voices whisper like venomous snakes on dead leaves, _your fault, all your fault, you always have to take someone down with you, don’t you._ Monroe shudders, suddenly cold, hair heavy and wet down her back.

A gasp and curse of, “Ow, shit, _fuck!”_ comes from the tub, snapping Monroe out of her reverie. She’s at the tub with a hand on the curtain before she quite realizes what she’s doing and forces herself to pause.

“You alright?” Monroe asks, careful. Last thing she wants is to make Adelaide feel smothered, coddled, babysat. There’s a little more grumbling before-

“Yeah, yeah,” her voice is a little snappish, all traces of sleep-softness gone. “Just - ah, _gods_ \- just forgot I was _fucking_ shot. Got a little excited trying to wash my hair and pulled it and holy _hells_ it hurts-” There’s an audible click, forcefully moderated breathing. Monroe lets go of the curtain, idly smooths a finger down a crease in the fabric. Faded songbirds are woven into it.

“Would you,” Monroe closes her eyes, sucks her top lip between her teeth. “Do you need any help?”

A pause. It drags on and on, Monroe’s heartbeat keeping time, _one, two, three._ There’s the taste of iron on Monroe’s tongue as she bites through her lip, mind tripping over itself in a mad scramble to backtrack.

“Alright,” comes the reply and Monroe’s whirling thoughts grind to a halt. “If you want.” It’s a horribly flippant response. Monroe suddenly wishes she’d pulled open the curtain, if only to see Adelaide’s face.

“Okay,” Monroe breathes. She touches the point of a bird’s beak, frozen mid-song, and slides past the curtain.

The water is murky and pearlescent with oils and milk, the tops of Adelaide’s bare knees just breaching the surface, splayed and resting on opposite sides of the tub. There’s an odd look in her eyes as she stares up at Monroe, mouth tucked below the water. Her hair is down, floating in dark tendrils around her face, twisting as they coast tiny waves. She’s tilted so her shoulder is mostly out of the water, the area around the wound still red and tender, the beginnings of a nasty bruise radiating out across her skin.

Monroe finds a short stool tucked against the far side of the bath. It’s a hefty, sturdy thing, warped by steam and soggy bodies, and it takes some effort to scoot it up behind Adelaide. She settles down and Adelaide tips her head back against the rim of the tub, bathwater painting a pale crescent across the bottom half of her face.

“Wanna pick out a scent?” Monroe asks, nodding towards the meager selection of vials and bars standing proud on a low shelf.

“Sure.” Adelaide leans forward and Monroe looks away, catching a glimpse of the expanse of Adelaide’s back, smooth skin occasionally interrupted by the pale slash of a scar. Staring at the inside of the curtain, Monroe wonders if each one has a story. Life as a lonely hermit can’t be a safe or easy existence.

Adelaide settles back against the inside of the tub, a bit of pale pink soap in one hand and a vial of oil in the other. She sets them down and nudges a pitcher towards Monroe. It’s like the one by the sink, if a little larger, with pale silver inlaid in shaky lines around the lip. Monroe picks up the soap, gives it a sniff.

“Peppermint, huh?” She tilts Adelaide’s head back with a careful touch, grateful her hands are still warm from her own scrub down. She pauses, considering the tempting mass of hair before her, shining in the soft light under its layers of dirt, and lets herself comb her fingers through Adelaide’s unruly curls, rubbing soothing circles at the soft, delicate skin behind her long ears. Her hair’s as thick and soft as Monroe imagined, dirt or no. Boneless, Adelaide lets loose a sigh, shoulders sinking on the exhale.

“I like it,” Adelaide says. Monroe pours a careful trickle of water from the pitcher over Adelaide’s hair, using her other hand to keep it from her eyes. “It smells nice. Kind of bright, clean.”

“Mmm.” The soap lathers that same dull pink. Monroe rubs it into Adelaide’s hair, massaging it deep into her scalp before working it down the rest of those long, long curls. Adelaide gives a soft hum of approval.

“Plus, I don’t think I saw any mint growing in that awful swamp,” she twists to give Monroe a bit of a grin, back to being hazy with exhaustion. Her eyes crinkle with it, droopy though her lids may be. Monroe snorts and guides Adelaide’s head back around with a slight touch to the back of her neck. She passes over with the soap once more and reaches for the pitcher.

“Who’s the alchemist, again? You couldn’t tell mint from basil.” Adelaide gasps, mock affronted, punctuating it with a heavy yawn. Monroe laughs as she tips Adelaide’s head back. “Close your eyes.”

“I’ll have you know I survived on my own for years,” Adelaide says as the suds run out of her hair, leaving it a dark curtain that falls down her back. “And that my herb garden is the best around.”

Monroe’s heart gives a painful little twinge at the image of Adelaide alone in her cabin, only ever relying on herself, trusting no one she encountered. She smooths her hands down Adelaide’s hair, a firm petting motion, lets her hands rest lightly, fingers splayed, on the back of her shoulders. Forcing herself to breathe, slowly, quietly, Monroe shakes herself, shoving the thought away when Adelaide begins to shift beneath her touch.

Instead of doing something foolish, like telling Adelaide that she’s not on her own, not anymore, Monroe pulls the cork out of the vial of oil with a high, hollow _pop_ . It’s lightly floral, smelling faintly of rosehips - dusky, dry, sunny. Spring and fresh tilled earth. She smiles as she drizzles it onto her palm, dipping her fingertips in the oil and working it into the ends of Adelaide’s hair. “That’s because it’s the _only_ one around,” she says at last. Adelaide _hmph_ s, not gracing that with a true response, but she does lean into Monroe’s hands as they find their way back to scratching gently across her scalp.

They sit like that, Monroe’s hands buried in Adelaide’s hair, the pads of her fingers pressing idle designs into the crown of Adelaide’s head. She falls loose and pliant under Monroe’s ministrations, a content hum occasionally gusting out in a rush of air.

Eventually, Monroe realizes once again that the bath will stay warm indefinitely, and that Adelaide is most likely impossibly pruny. She drags a finger along the shell of one of Adelaide’s pointed ears, huffing a laugh at its irritable flick. Adelaide gives a blearily confused hum when Monroe tugs gently at a lock of hair.

“Come on, up you go. You can’t sleep in the bath.”

Monroe ducks out past the curtain, ignoring Adelaide’s muttered, “Watch me,” and scoops up the last towel. There’s another explosive yawn as she offers it over the curtain rod, and she takes the time to retie her own towel.

“I’ll find you something to sleep in,” Monroe tosses over her shoulder. Water sloshes and the towel draped over the curtain rod disappears.

Their bags are truly a disaster by now with all the time Monroe’s spent rummaging through them with varying degrees of caution. Shirts and leggings spill from her own bag, thoroughly wrinkled, while Adelaide's bag is in slightly better shape with most of her clothes still tucked inside. Monroe finds a new set of smallclothes and a camisole that’s only mostly musty for herself and a loose-necked nightgown with a line of buttons that march a few inches below the collar that shouldn’t be too difficult for Adelaide to get into. She shuts the drapes and changes, delighting in the smooth feeling of clean clothes against clean skin.

There’s a shuffling sound from behind her, a soft rap on the door frame. When she turns, Adelaide’s leaning there, towel held closed with a fist, eyes half-lidded and cheeks flushed with steam. Monroe’s eyes skitter across her face, her clavicle, then down to the gown held in her own tight-knuckled grip.

“Oh! Hey,” Monroe says, lamely. The buttons are smooth, and she has no trouble working them through the button holes before holding the gown out to Adelaide. “Here.”

She takes it with a quiet, “Thanks,” the door clicking shut behind her as she turns back to the bathroom. Monroe busies herself with turning down the covers of the bed. It, like the stool and bath and pitchers, is sturdy and once-elegant, worn down by many years of rough-handling. The mattress is serviceable and well-made, if a bit lumpy, and the linens are soft from many washes. The bed creaks when Monroe throws herself down, a disgruntled groan born from old age. She presses her hands into the mattress, palms down, and breathes out a long, slow sigh. There’s a chill in the air, creeping through the inn’s probably ancient insulation and into their room. A fire would be nice. Wise, even. Monroe wriggles her shoulders and lets herself sink deeper into the bed, goosebumps rising at her wet braid pressing into her back.

Before she can get too comfortable, Adelaide steps out of the bathroom, globe of light bobbing behind her. She pauses next to the vase of dying flowers, strokes a thumb down a petal that crackles under her touch. Monroe props herself up on her elbows when Adelaide continues to stand there, unmoving. She’s looking at the bed, seemingly frozen and lost in thought and Monroe shuffles herself into a more reasonable position, patting the other side of the mattress.

“I didn’t think to ask for two beds,” Monroe says, apology on the tip of her tongue, and Adelaide seems to shake herself, blinking at Monroe as a slow, small smile curls her lips.

“It’s fine,” she says, stepping away from the now crushed and crumpled flowers, sinking down onto the bed next to Monroe. Her head hits the pillows and she gives a startled, pleased laugh. “This isn’t too bad.”

“Right? It beats moss and mud, for sure.” Monroe points her toes in a languid stretch then shifts over to give Adelaide a bit more space.

“I don’t know,” Adelaide says, a teasing lilt in her voice. She scooches closer. It’s a tight fit, the bed not quite large enough for two grown women but far too big for one person. “You seemed quite at home in the muck.” Monroe hauls the blankets over them, sealing them in from the cool air, and the scant space between them suddenly seems much smaller. More intimate.

Monroe rolls onto her side, propping her chin on a closed fist. Adelaide smiles up at her, the curve of the apple of her cheek lined with silver from the globe. Monroe’s heart trips over itself. “Listen, you know I love getting down and dirty as much as the next girl,” Adelaide snickers at Monroe’s eyebrow waggle, “but the grime gets a little tedious. Give me twenty-four hours and I’ll be ready for another romp.” Adelaide laughs outright, slapping at Monroe’s shoulder.

“You’re terrible,” she says, her grin turning sly. “Although, isn’t a full day a pretty long recovery time? You might want to see someone about that.”

Monroe groans as Adelaide lets out another bark of laughter at her own innuendo, collapsing back down to the bed and turning out the lamp sitting on the bedside table. A soft silver glow from the dwindling globe is the only source of light in the room.

“ _I’m_ terrible? I was talking about mud and you had to make it crude!” Adelaide merely laughs harder at Monroe’s bald-faced lie. She keeps laughing as the globe grows ever smaller, and Monroe can’t help but join her. “It’s really not that funny,” she eventually manages.

“I know,” Adelaide gasps, wiping at a molten silver tear trailing down her cheek. She sobers a little, eyes still crinkled with the force of her smile. “It’s late.”

“Really late,” Monroe agrees. The globe finally fizzles out, plunging them into darkness. Adelaide snorts but keeps her mirth in check.

“Guess that’s a sign?”

“Probably.” It’s Monroe’s turn to yawn, now, the laughter after the hours of adrenaline fueled near-panic leaving her suddenly exhausted. She burrows down into the blankets a bit, letting their shared warmth wash over her.

Adelaide shifts, too, a soft hiss as she presumably pulls at her stitches punctuating the darkness. She settles down a little closer to Monroe, and she vaguely wonders how they haven’t run out of space between them yet.

A thought strikes Monroe. “Shouldn’t we bandage your wound?”

“We can do it in the morning,” Adelaide says. That doesn’t sound like a great idea, but Monroe doesn’t argue. It _is_ really late, after all.

“If you say so.”

Adelaide hums. They both fall silent. Outside the window, the stars turn above a field of wilting wildflowers.

It’s quiet, and warm, and Adelaide is breathing soft and easy next to her, and the fear and exertion and days of wandering feel so far away. Monroe’s eyelids grow heavy.

“Monroe?” A gentle touch to her wrist startles her out of her doze.

“Mmm?”

“Thank you,” Adelaide’s voice is quiet in the dark, barely more than a whisper. Her fingers stroke short, nervous lines over the thin skin of Monroe’s wrist, “for everything. I know I already said it, but. It would’ve been… well. A lot worse without you here. It,” she pauses, “it means a lot to me. So, just, thank you.” She lets out a self-deprecating huff and moves to pull away. “Sorry, I’ll let you sleep.”

Before she can pull away, Monroe tangles their fingers together, holding Adelaide’s fingertips in her own like a lifeline, sliding her hand up until their palms fit together.

“Don’t apologize,” Monroe says as their fingers slot together, as easy as breathing, “I like being with you and I want to be there for you.” Adelaide’s grip tightens and there’s a hitch in her breathing. Monroe closes her eyes, debates doing something foolish. Fuck it. “You’re not alone anymore. You’ve got me, now, okay?”

A quiet sniff, then, “Okay.” There’s a waver in her voice. Monroe tugs on their joined hands and pulls Adelaide closer, wrapping a careful arm around her shoulders. Adelaide rolls with it, burying her face into the junction of Monroe’s neck and shoulder, and Monroe smooths a slow hand up her back, counting the knobs of her vertebrae. A shudder runs through Adelaide, a barely suppressed sob, and Monroe presses a kiss to the side of her head, hair that’s still damp and sweet tickling her nose.

“You’re stuck with me now,” Monroe says, rubbing her hand up, down, up, down. “Go to sleep, alright? It’s been a long few days.”

Quiet returns, blanket-heavy in their chilly room. Adelaide’s half on top of Monroe, chin hooked over her shoulder, blowing slow puffs of air against the curve of Monroe’s cheek. Her own hands are laced together at the small of Adelaide’s back, loosely cradling her in a way she hopes is grounding. Neither of them are asleep despite the late hour, but they’re relaxed and comfortable, warmed by each other’s bodies.

Monroe closes her eyes, presses her cheek against the side of Adelaide’s head. Her fingers against the bare skin of Monroe’s waist briefly tighten, and Monroe thinks that maybe, someday, they’ll be okay.

As long as they have each other.


End file.
